


'Til Death Do Us Part

by wholockian007



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non Canonical Immortal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockian007/pseuds/wholockian007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sighed as he heard the ever recognizable footsteps of Mike Stamford heading toward the room. The man knew he was busy. Why couldn’t he just wait? Looking up, he was prepared to tell him to go away when he saw the other person that had entered the room. So this was the next reincarnation, then. An army doctor wounded in battle with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. Perhaps a bit harder to convince than the last one. But also the one that just might remember him. He could only hope. It had been far too long since this man’s first self, and rebuilding the relationship over and over without any recollection had taken an emotional toll on the immortal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Centuries Back

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that I wrote because I saw a post on my dash about an immortal dating a mortal and said mortal finding pictures of the immortals exes (who are all previous incarnations of the mortal) and tumblr user purpleandorangesheep expressed an interest in seeing this applied to Johnlock.
> 
> Also, I chose the name James for John's first incarnation because of something I read that stated ACD grew to not care about Sherlock Holmes so much that he'd accidentally call John 'James' and not even give a shit.

 

**1710**

"Do you, James Watson, take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish from this day forward until death do you part?" 

"I do." His voice was filled with adoration, putting such emphasis on those two syllables that Sherlock swore his heart grew three sizes. 

"And do you, Sherlock Holmes, take James Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish from this day forward until death do you part?"

"I do." Sherlock's smile grew in vibrance to match the one of his lover. He might be a man of science, but that didn't mean he couldn't believe in soul mates. And right there, in that moment, he knew he had found his. 

"Then by the power vested in me by the Royal Family of England, I declare you man and husband." The priest, who just so happened to be connected to Sherlock's older brother, stepped back. They knew the rest.

Sherlock gently pulled his new husband up against him, moving his hands from between them to embrace his lover. "I love you, James Watson-Holmes." He kissed him, gently and passionately, an overwhelming feeling of warmth and love coming over him. 

"Forever?" James asked, though his eyes showed he knew the answer. 

"'Til death do us part." Sherlock beamed at him, kissing him again before James rested his head on his shoulder.

 

**2010**

Sherlock sighed as he heard the ever recognizable footsteps of Mike Stamford heading toward what had quickly become his personal lab at St. Bart's. The man knew he was busy. Why couldn't he just wait? Looking up, he was prepared to tell him to go away when he saw the other person that had entered the room. So this was the next reincarnation, then. An army doctor wounded in battle with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. Perhaps a bit harder to gain his affections than the last one. But he could also be the one that just might remember him. He could only hope. It had been far too long since this man's first self, since James, and rebuilding the relationship over and over without any recollection had taken an emotional toll on the immortal.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He looked back to his work as he said this in an attempt to cover up what would otherwise have been awkward staring at the man whose soul he had known for three centuries now. 

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, making no move to take out a phone.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Er, here. Use mine," the other man offered.

"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock took the phone, feigning indifference as their fingers brushed against each other. Oh, how he longed for that touch again. Longed for that love, for remembrance of what they once were. James' last reincarnation had died forty years ago. They had been married and had loved each other dearly, but there had been no recollection. No remembrance of previous times, of which there were two. But there was no point dwelling on that when this reincarnation, John, if he had heard Mike correctly, knew nothing about him. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked suddenly, as a way to start conversation.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated, glancing over at John briefly before sending a message containing the results of his experiment to Lestrade.

"...Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know....?"

Sherlock was about to reply when Molly came in with the coffee he had requested earlier. He felt bad about acting so oblivious toward her, but he already had his soul mate and he couldn't afford to mess with that. Who knew what the universe could do? So he dismissed her as quickly as possible and then turned to John. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John looked around, as though Sherlock could be addressing someone else. "I'm sorry, what...?

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" It never had, but he had to cover the bases. It was something he did every time, though not in the same manner. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Oh, you...you told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike replied, grinning smugly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How  _did_ you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock didn't reply, not to be rude as it might have looked, but because he hadn't been listening. He was checking his phone, looking for the place Mrs. Hudson said she owned. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He could afford it on his own, really. He didn't need a flatmate. But that morning his instinct had told him that he'd be meeting James, or in this case, John again, and his instincts on that were always right. So he brought it up to Mike, and now here they were. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash - I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it, then?"

"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, turning from his position at the door and walking back to John.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?"

Oh, right. Why would he expect that he would be remembered right off the bat? Every time he did that, and every time the fact that 'we've just met' caused his heart to drop. "Problem?" he asked, faking a smile to cover the pain.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, sadness visible only if one knew how to look.  _I know you're my soul mate_ , he wanted to say,  _I know that the two of us have been together for centuries, and I know that you could remember that if you tried._ But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he listed off the more obvious. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you," that one was a guess. It had been brother and sister in the past, "but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He started to leave again, but leaned back through the doorway. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." He winked at John before leaving for good, already wondering what he could try differently to get John to remember their first marriage.


	2. Meeting of the Immortals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Sherlock meets with John at Baker Street, he meets with his brother. In his mind, two immortals prompting John's memory seems better than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't worked out exactly how the Holmes family became immortal, but I think it will be something similar to Tuck Everlasting. Something specific to their environment - whether natural or not - altered them when they were at those specific ages. Oh, and by the Holmes family, I mean Sherlock's immediate family. So, Mycroft and his parents.

The following day, Sherlock made a point of visiting his brother early on in the morning. Though people always assumed the contrary, Sherlock and Mycroft got along wonderfully. There was a time when they didn't, but ever since their family became immortal, they had a lot more time to talk and resolve any conflicts between them. But this wasn't just a social visit. Sherlock wanted his brother to speak with John as well. James had known both of them well, and perhaps two prominent figures from John's first lifetime would give the man enough of a sense of deja vu that he would end up remembering. Maybe it was a long shot, but it was a strategy he had never tried before, and it had to be worth something.

"You're not busy, are you?" he asked, entering the office as he knocked on the door. 

"I'm always busy," Mycroft said simply, looking up from his papers nonetheless. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I have a favor to ask of you." He walked in and sat down in the chair opposite his brother. "It regards James' newest reincarnation."

"Oh? So you've found him again, have you? Do tell."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's almost-eagerness to know about his romantic life. "Mike Stamford introduced me to him yesterday afternoon. His name is John, and he's an Army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. The rest you know. He's just like James." Sherlock smiled fondly, and had he been around his mother rather than his brother he would have let out a lovesick sigh. But he had to keep some sense of dignity around his older brother.

"So, what is it that you want me to do?"

"I want you to meet with him. Talk to him. About anything, really. There's very little you could talk about that wouldn't pull at some repressed memory from a previous lifetime." The way Sherlock regarded his brother as he put forth his request was akin to a gambler waiting to hear the last numbers of the winning lottery ticket. "Would you? Please?"

"I certainly have no reason to oppose," Mycroft started, easily able to see Sherlock's desperation. "But I must admit, I'm rather curious as to why you're asking me. Especially now, of all times."

"I want him to remember who we were when we first met. He never remembers when we were first drawn together, and I don't know if I can handle another cycle of that. We're soul mates, that much is obvious, and I know he's going to keep coming to me, but it drives me mad not being able to talk about things we've done together in my lifetime simply because they haven't been in his. Like our 1820 honeymoon. That was one of the best times I've ever had with him, and just knowing that it's so repressed he can't remember it on his own is heartbreaking."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. He knew his little brother was hopelessly in love, and he could see just how much this meant to him. "Alright. When are the two of you moving into the flat?"

"Seven o'clock this evening. Though if the trend I've been following remains the same, I'm expecting Lestrade will show up not long after."

"I'll intercept him later on then. Just leave quickly so he can't follow you. It would be better to get him alone. Less acting."

"If the crime scene is anything like I expect it to be, I'll leave him behind anyway. We both know how I get on cases." He chuckled as he stood, making his way to the door and turning to his brother once more. "Thank you. Just the fact that you're willing to try this for me, for us, means more than you could know." With that, he left the office, heading to Baker Street so he could move his stuff in before John got there.

Mycroft just smiled in response, already writing a memo to send off to his PA and his chauffeur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, yeah, but I needed it to set up future chapters.


	3. The Case and The Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock leaves the crime scene before John can follow

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," John said as he looked around the flat.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock agreed, looking around happily. "So I went straight ahead and moved in. Though you'll have to excuse the mess, I haven't had a chance to sort things out yet." He set down the last of his boxes and began shuffling through one of them. "I had a prior engagement that took up the time I otherwise could have used to straighten up the place." Taking out a few envelopes - the last of his mail from his previous home, he set them on the mantelpiece and shoved a knife into them to keep them in place. They were unimportant, and would soon become fodder for the fireplace.

"That's a skull..." Sherlock looked over at the sound of John's voice, and then followed the line of his cane to see where he was pointing. 

"Oh, yes." He lifted it out of the box, setting it on the opposite side of the mantelpiece. "It's a friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." Really, it was just a testament to the fact that everything ended while he lived on. Aside from his parents and his brother, the skull was the one constant thing in his life. So he kept it with him. But he couldn't tell John any of that.

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson, the ~~housekeeper~~ landlady asked. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Sherlock tensed, knowing how John was going to respond. It was too early for him to respond to that favorably, and he didn't want to hear his response. It was painful enough having his James not remember him, but to add to that a flat out rejection of the thought of being together made the pain almost unbearable.

"Of course we'll be needing two," John insisted.

"Oh, don't worry. We've got all kinds round here. Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones."

Sherlock could feel John looking at him, expecting him to disprove her theory that they were an item. That stare bore into him, making an infinity out of the three seconds it lasted. He couldn't even look back at him, the weight of his emotions already threatening to crush him without any eye contact. If he looked over, surely he would lose all of his resolution. So the immortal feigned oblivion, preferring to seem clueless than reveal how much he was pining.

Mrs. Hudson, seemingly sensing the awkward tension between them, picked up the newspaper and pointed to an article. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Sherlock smirked, walking over to the window. Lestrade's car was pulling up to the curb. Right on time. "Four. There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time. "

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The "suicide" in question was that of a Miss Jennifer Wilson. She may have been a serial adulterer, but she hadn't killed herself. It was all in the suitcase.

"Now where is it? What have you done with it?" Sherlock asked, looking for the case in question.

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade regarded him skeptically.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock shook his head, heading out of the room. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in the house?" He started down the stairs, knowing there was a suitcase to be found.

"Sherlock! There was no case!" Lestrade yelled after him.

"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." 

"Right. Yeah, thanks. And...?"

"It's murder, all of them," Sherlock announced. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings... _serial_ killings." He nodded as he spoke; he was sure of it.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked.

"Her case!" Sherlock shot back. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case. So, the killer must have driven her here and forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there?" John offered. Sherlock looked up at him, tempted to smile, but he shook his head.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she would never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." He trailed off as he suddenly realized something. "Oh...Oh!" He began grinning and clapped his hands together.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it, what?"

"Serial killers are always hard," he replied. "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade protested.

"Oh, we're  _done_ waiting!" He started to hurry downstairs again, still shouting up to them. "Look at her, really  _look!_ Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah," Lestrade agreed. "But what mistake?"

Sherlock swerved back up onto the bottom steps, using the railing to push himself as high as he could before answering with a shout of, "PINK!" And then he was gone, off to find Jennifer Wilson's pink case that the serial killer obviously had discarded, leaving Lestrade and his men to their investigations and John to his meeting with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has almost nothing to due with the AU, and is more just describing the first canon case, but once they start dating things will get better.


	4. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft brings John to an abandoned warehouse. John finds the conversation stranger than the circumstances he's having it in.

John sighed, walking out of the building and heading toward the main road. He didn't blame Sherlock for leaving on a whim like that, it was clear that he did that sort of thing a lot, but it was rather frustrating to have to find his own way home. If it weren't for his damn leg, perhaps he could've caught up with him.... 

A pay phone ringing as he passed by pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at it quizzically but continued on. When it happened again, he paused, but it stopped once someone else went into the booth.  _How odd._ He moved on, and when the third pay phone rang, he stopped, looked around, and entered the booth. Picking up the phone, he was surprised to find that the call went through.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowned, confused. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

"Yeah, I see it." He might as well go along with it. There was no way he was going to get a straight answer out of the man even if he tried.

"Watch."

John obliged, watching as the camera swiveled away from its position. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that this man was controlling them or the fact that it started facing him.

"There's another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

"Mm-hmm." John watched as it did the same thing the first one did. Now this obviously pompous git was just being overdramatic. 

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

John rolled his eyes, looking up anyway as, unsurprisingly, the third camera did the exact same thing as the first two. "I would ask you how you're doing this, but at this point I only care about why you're doing it."

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I  _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is clear to you." With that, the phone line went dead, and John was left confused and annoyed as he got into the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I've got a phone, you know," John told the mysterious man as he approached, very,  _very_   tempted to kick the umbrella off-balance. This guy clearly needed to be brought down a peg or two, and being caused to fall on his arse would certainly do. "Very clever and all, but you could've just phoned me....On my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet."

"And who are you, exactly, that you need to avoid Sherlock's attention?"

"An interested third party. You need not know my exact identity, but suffice it to say that I have a very strong connection to him."

John tilted his head fractionally, regarding the man in front of him. "Might I guess that this 'connection' is one way only?"

"You could." He brought his umbrella up, inspecting the tip of it. "And perhaps you wouldn't be far off. But rest assured you cannot merely guess everything."

John cursed inwardly. Not only was this guy grating on his nerves, he had just lost his chance to make a fool of him.

"You are, I assume, aware of Sherlock's deductive abilities by now." It was not a question, but a statement of fact. "And still you seem willing to defend him. Why?"

Glaring at him, John drew a breath to answer him but was then struck with an odd sense of déjà vu. He felt like he had answered this exact question before, but everything else about the situation felt utterly foreign. Why, then, did these words trigger such a strong response? Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Because he's a bloody genius. And clearly, there's a lack of appreciation for it."

Mycroft blinked in surprise as John faltered. Perhaps Sherlock was right. This stimulation was clearly affecting the repressed memories. There was a chance that, with Sherlock acting himself and continued stimulation on his own part, John might come to remember when he was James. He only hoped Sherlock wouldn't be even more crushed when this reincarnation inevitably died.

"Why do you care so much that I'm being a decent human being toward him anyway? It's none of your business."

"Ah, but you'll find that it is."

"I don't think so. But if it truly is, you should be able to tell me why."

"In due time, Doctor Watson. In due time."

John clenched his left hand instinctively, and he was about to completely ruin the man's three piece suit when his phone buzzed.

**Baker Street.**

**Come at once**

**if convenient.**

**SH**

Good. An excuse to leave. John knew he was verging on doing things he would seriously regret. He had to remember to thank Sherlock for texting when he did.

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

John took a moment to breathe before slowly looking up at the man. "No. Not at all," he said icily.

"Good." The man smirked, and John wished he could smack that look right off of his face. "Now, if you do move into two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I would gladly pay you a large sum of money in exchange for information on Sherlock's activities. Nothing you'd be uncomfortable with, of course, just his general day-to-day goings-on."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly. Though I'd prefer if my concern went unmentioned for.....various reasons."

"No," John said automatically, and once again he felt like he had heard these words before.

**If inconvenient,**

**come anyway.**

**SH**

"I haven't even offered a figure yet."

"Don't bother. And tell your people to bring me home."

**Could be dangerous.**

**SH**

John only glanced at the last text before putting his phone away and walking back to the car. "I don't know who you are," he added over his shoulder, "but I've got a tip for you. Never bribe a soldier. It doesn't work." Turning his back to the man, he got in the car and told the assistant to drop him off at his old place before bringing him to 221b Baker Street.


End file.
